Viscosity
by The Denominator
Summary: There's just something that pulls them together. [College AU] [Princess Bubblegum x Marceline the Vampire Queen] [Bubbline] [Yuri/Femslash]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the licensed material mentioned in this fic.**

**A.N. Cover image taken from the fourth issue of _Adventure Time presents_ _Marceline and the Scream Queens. _Non-chronological narrative, yikes.**  
><strong>**

* * *

><p>There are things Bonnibel knows she can and cannot do.<p>

With this in mind, she sorts aspects of her life into categories that make the most sense to her. She acts accordingly. She takes paths ensuring that she will always be moving forward. She is disciplined with absolute certainty. Perhaps this is why she likes a challenge. This is her brand of thrill-seeking, seeing just how far she can go before she meets resistance or control slips from her confident fingers. Reason dictates that she ought not to stimulate major potential mushroom-bombs. Her pride on the other hand disallows her from thinking that anything she does can end in failure.

There are things she can do.

The pink hair is one of them, but that is an experiment in gauging the limits of parental imperturbability. Dyeing her hair an outrageous colour does not even moderately faze her folks. Instead of a severe grounding or telling off, her parents merely glow, thinking she's made another good decision. "It looks good!" they praise. It nearly makes her go grape-nuts. She concludes that this typical act of teenage rebellion does not garner the same result as it did with other parents (for her childhood friend LSP's post-Brad break-up purple-dyed hair gets her grounded "until the colour washes out").

There are things she cannot do.

Like be less than stellar in her academic pursuits. She simply _must_ graduate summa cum laude. Anything else would be unacceptable. She will not entertain the possibility of a grade lower than an A. Bonnibel has her future mapped out very clearly. Unlike LSP, who thrives on gossip and boyfriends and cannot wait to get out of the education system, Bonnibel aims for an excellent undergraduate prospect and plans for an even more fantastic post-grad. Where it gets tricky is her indecision between a practical doctorial position and a research-based professorship when she's older. This is the only thing she doesn't have entirely planned.

At least, so she thinks.

* * *

><p>There are things she cannot do.<p>

One of them is to tell the world that on weekends she climbs several flights of stairs of an apartment building downtown, and knocks on the red door marked "Room 176".

What she does there is something she can't tell her parents, LSP, her Korean dorm-mate nor the neighbour-boy Finn who she used to baby-sit. How can she possibly tell them that when she's not busy with fieldwork, study groups, lectures, homework, her part-time tutoring job, labs and personal research… she spends her free time fucking another girl?

* * *

><p>Being with Marceline is a good kind of challenge.<p>

It is a curious relationship, Bonnibel knows. But this is something she does not try to control. She attempts to in the early stages, but that ends in an argument that lasts weeks. Forgiveness is hard for the both of them as stubbornness is a shared trait. But they always relent even when it's not easy. There is just something that pulls them back together even when they push one another away. Is it the good sex? Bonnibel acknowledges that Marceline is currently her only (and preferred) source of physical contact. She's not Bonnibel's first and Bonnibel is not hers, so there's no sentimental attachment there. She's had her fair share of suitors including Puff, a high school boyfriend who was more like arm candy, and Braco, an utterly besotted lab partner who she likes but dumps because there is affection but no passion. Marceline, on the other hand, makes her aware of her very synapses. But even she knows that this can't just be a physical connection. Perhaps she's overvaluing the chemical reaction her body is having to sexual stimulation, but maybe there's something… more. She wants to figure it out and her science-wired mind aches for clear answers. But she leaves it alone. This is not something she will push to its limits, to test its elasticity, to measure its boundaries or to prove right or wrong. She avoids doing any experiments because this is _more_ than just an experiment. She doesn't say that out loud. After all, it's not like Marceline to admit such a thing either. They learn to have no rules, but understandings.

She takes whatever is offered to her happily, and she gives whatever of herself she can. She knows Marceline has big messy stressful obligations and responsibilities that her small, neat and cosy apartment does not reflect nor reveal. Of course Bonnibel knows who this girl is and what weighs on her shoulders. Abadeer Inc. is the biggest company in the entirety of the city, after all. Bonnibel's family owns and runs a candy store, but it doesn't compare. It is one thing to be the daughter of adequately successful confectioners, but to be sole heir to an influential big business? Bonnibel can understand why Marceline chooses to live on her own, pay her own rent and ignore her phone whenever the screen reads "Hunson".

"My dad wouldn't like my music," Marceline jokes every now and again, grin toothy, eyes dark.

Bonnibel figures it's best to leave it at that. She never presses for information, doesn't ask. It makes her seem callous but she knows there are things she can and cannot talk about.

* * *

><p>She remembers how and when they first met.<p>

A Friday night, a college Halloween party and a live band is providing the entertainment for the evening. Bonnibel hasn't been to parties or concerts before but she never misses an opportunity to add to her range of experiences. She checks this off her list of "To Dos". She wonders beforehand if to bring candy from her family's store (it is Halloween after all), but is grateful that she doesn't: people want beer and cigarettes. Her costume consists entirely of a gold-coloured plastic crown (LSP warns her that _Mean Girls_ is mostly on the mark with its depiction of Halloween parties). But she doesn't want to be a slutty nurse or slutty zombie, so she picks up the first thing she finds at the party store which is a cheap princess pack with a crown, sceptre and a "diamond necklace". Just the crown'll do. LSP is right, of course, though there are some party-goers who take their outfits very seriously, convincingly dressed as pirates or video game characters or Waldo (although she can't tell if the latter are just hipsters in their regular clothing). The rest are scantily-clad girls in a range of professions that would impress a 1960s Barbie, or guys in tee-shirts with neckties and empty briefcases pretending to be "businessmen".

Bonnibel is alone tonight—Lady has a midterm paper that needs to be done and LSP has a date. She has knowledge based on raunchy teen comedies and young adult fiction about what happens. There is party-going protocol to follow, and drinking cheap alcohol is part of that. She gets a red plastic cup, fills it herself with beer, takes a sip, decides she doesn't like it but downs it anyway. Alcohol consumption, another check. Everything is alive and loud. The band on stage is garnering cheers and whistles.

Bonnibel soaks it all up. Strobe lights in the night-time, an ill-advised smoke machine, the glow of a million phones recording everything and beer everywhere, including down her arm when an inebriated someone sloshes their drink on her.

"Sorry, sorry," they slur, but Bonnibel ignores it and tries to move to a less drunken area in the crowd.

The effort is futile as she somehow ends up bumped and pushed right to the front of the stage. Everyone around her pumps their fist into the air. The roar is deafening enough, but it is somehow drowned out by the live music. Bonnibel gets her first look at the band. She fumbles with her glasses when someone shoves into her from behind. She pays little mind, resisting her natural urge to turn and shout "Watch it, ya butt!" for there is something, some_one_ far more important right to give her undivided attention.

It is the long-legged, wiry goddess before her, belting out a song Bonnibel doesn't know but feels like she's heard it before, somewhere in a dream or another life. She plays the bass hanging low in front of her so naturally that looks like it's just an extension of her body. Her face is thin, complexion pale, hair long and black. She wears a grey tank top and loose boot-cut jeans. And her voice… dear Glob on Mars, that voice. Bonnibel is anxious, trying to calculate her heart rate, the chemical reaction surging through her body. Is it the alcohol? Adrenaline,and maybe, something else? She doesn't quite know what it is as yet but she knows it's different. It tingles, it pulses. Surges. She sees "Marceline and the Scream Queens" printed on the bass drum. The singer has to be Marceline. Bonnibel doesn't know when but she moves to the music, lost, yet finding more of herself in that moment than she has done in all her life.

The set is over after a couple more songs and a deejay takes over, playing dub-infused rock and shittily remixed 80s power ballads instead. It is garbage compared to what she was hearing before, but everyone else enjoys it, too drunk to care. Bonnibel is still racing. She is sweating, excited and inexplicably impatient. She leaves the crowd and moves to a more open area. The cool night air feels balmy against her heated body. She thinks she should have another beer, regardless of what it tastes like. She doesn't anticipate it, but she finds Marceline by the coolers, long arm plunging into the melting ice, pulling out cans and tossing them to people Bonnibel vaguely recalls as the Scream Queens. She approaches and is surprised when she has to open her hands to catch a flying can.

"Good catch, Pinkerton," Marceline praises, seeing Bonnibel capture the cool cylinder. "Hope you like Bud, because that's all there is."

Bonnibel has never been nervous before in her entire life—not even when she had to spell "appoggiatura" in front of hundreds of people at that spelling bee back in middle school—but she is right now. She opens the beer and sips on it, storing away information about the intoxicating effect of alcohol on her body when taking her BMI and the alcohol content of the beverage into consideration.

One of the band-mates shakes up a can and sprays it at another. She hears it, the sweet sound of laughter from Marceline. Bonnibel notes that she should probably leave now having procured the drink, but as she turns, Marceline speaks (or rather shouts over the noise of raucous fun from the rest of the band and the ear-splittingly loud booming from the speaker boxes).

"Did you see us perform?"

Bonnibel affirms that she did.

"Were we any good?"

She thinks for a minute.

"The overall composition of your songs," Bonnibel shouts back in response, "while structurally sound, had a number of errors in each one of them. There were some movements that were purely untapped potential. However, I think that contributes to a distinctive kind of music. I suppose you can call it 'charming' even."

Marceline's countenance is blank and Bonnibel realises very quickly that she should have just said "It was good!" and leave it at that. But then there is that laugh again.

"Okay, professor," the black-haired girl says, grinning at her. "Schooled."

"You guys were awwwesooome!" someone shouts from a group of partiers passing by the coolers to top up.

Everyone who hears them cheers in agreement. Marceline raises her beer in their direction. She comes much closer to Bonnibel and leans in, saying good-naturedly, "You're probably the only sober critic we're gonna get tonight. And that wasn't exactly a compliment you gave there, was it?"

"Criticism should be productive," Bonnibel answers, wondering again if to attribute the tingling feeling to Marceline's breath on her ear or the beer.

"Room for improvement. Gotcha."

Bonnibel doesn't know why, but she and Marceline end up talking for the rest of the night which is a feat, considering that the general noise pollution competes with their voices.

Her name is Marceline; she does not say her last name. She's twenty-one years old, which makes her three years older than Bonnibel. She looks very tall on stage, but standing next to her reveals that she and Bonnibel are about the same height, give or take a couple centimetres. Marceline doesn't go the university, but she has a lot of friends there and they get gigs around the college circuit. She writes and plays music professionally. She produces homemade beats and occasionally gets commissions to make jingles. She hums one aloud to Bonnibel and even she knows it—it's a tune that plays on local radio advertising walnuts.

"It sucks, but I made four months' worth of rent for that one," explains Marceline, shaking her head a little embarrassedly.

Marceline asks, so Bonnibel tells her about herself in turn. Age, eighteen years and two months. Bio-chem major. Freshman, first semester. Daughter of the owners of the "Bubblegum Emporium" in the mall. Aiming to be the youngest living Nobel laureate someday.

Marceline points to her glasses.

"Can you see without those?"

"I have hyperopia" answers Bonnibel.

"Wuh?"

"I'm far-sighted."

"Hey, take 'em off for a second," Marceline says, not even waiting before she reaches out herself and removes Bonnibel's frames off her face.

"What the—" Bonnibel splutters, instantly feeling as though someone has just yanked her pants down rather than take off her glasses.

Her face blushes deeply pink. She is not used to someone behaving like this with her.

"Don't be so red in the face, Bonnibel," Marceline teases. "Well look at that—you're not so bad without these blinkers on."

"What do you mean, and could I please have them back?"

"You're cute with these on," Marceline responds. "But you're pretty smoking without them. Here you go, princess."

Bonnibel tries to ignore the feeling in her chest.

Their conversation crosses a number of topics ranging from Bonnibel's pet rat to the tree fort Marceline had when she was a kid. Marceline delights her with stories from the year she went back-packing across South America and Bonnibel regales her with the anecdote of the time she nearly blew up the science lab in ninth grade.

It is so late that it is now very early morning. Bonnibel's wrist-watch reads "3:45". The music has died down considerably, and most of the crowd has disappeared. Only few linger around, either asleep or chatting or trying to pack up their things. Marceline's band-mates turn to her expectantly. They want to bail.

"Let's see this kid home first," she tells them and before Bonnibel can retort, she feels her arm being pulled and she follows. Marceline leads her to a van that looks almost like the Mystery Machine and the band piles in. There is no room for Bonnibel and the back of the van is full of instruments and amps, so Marceline instructs her to sit on her lap. Arms wind around her like a makeshift seatbelt and Bonnibel's entire stomach gives way. Her neck tickles where Marceline breathes. When Marceline speaks, the vibration echoes on her skin.

Her dorm is a fifteen minute drive from the party grounds, but Bonnibel wishes it were an hour away. She wishes it was another night away, for she doesn't want to leave. She doesn't want Marceline to let go of her. They drop her off in front of the dorms. Bonnibel gets out of the vehicle and instantly misses the feeling of Marceline against her, though Marceline teases by saying that she can "feel her legs again".

"Gimme your phone," Marceline instructs and Bonnibel obliges.

Her thumb moves quickly as it inputs something.

"Call me if you ever want to criticise our music again," Marceline says winking, handing the mobile back.

Everyone gives her a tired but friendly goodbye and the van takes off. On her way back to her room, Bonnibel decides that parties aren't that bad, but concerts are especially very good. Concerts have bands and beautiful strangers. Meeting Marceline isn't part of her plan, but she's glad it happens. She adds and then checks one more thing off her list.

Calling Marceline is definitely something she can do.

* * *

><p>Her freshman year ends, and Bonnibel goes home for the summer break. As the only child, her parents are insistent that they see their daughter for at least a week since she spends the rest of the year living on campus. It's not more than two hours' drive from home, but they like the idea that they can feed her spaghetti for dinner and give her honey-sweetened tea with her breakfast within the same twenty-four hour time frame.<p>

This occasion is special. She invites someone over.

"Mother, father. This is Marceline Abadeer."

Her parents are as pleased as ever. Bringing someone with scuffed up boots, ripped jeans and the biggest shit-eating grin into a household might inspire raised eyebrows for others, but not her folks.

She is hopeful that they won't fuss about Marceline's surname, and is grateful when they don't. She does not want the first few minutes of Marceline's visit be unpleasant. Her mother invites everyone to have some lunch. Marceline is all excellent manners and good conversation. She eats her soup but sparingly touches the garlic bread. Bonnibel scribbles this down in her mental log "Marceline's Food Preferences" for future reference. She knows Marceline loves red-coloured fruit like strawberries, apples, cherries and tomatoes. She can now safely say that Marceline doesn't care for garlicky food—she didn't entirely seem to enjoy the hummus they had bought for dinner weeks ago. Marceline isn't the type to tell her directly that she doesn't like something.

Their relationship isn't one of typical exchange. They talk, and Bonnibel finds herself not necessarily speaking more, but definitely _saying_ more. Marceline's contributions to conversations are full of stories, jokes and teases. Her feelings are kept in a book Bonnibel sees her writing in from time to time. They translate to the jingles she makes to try to sell for another month of rent, they become lyrics for her live music and for songs she shares in the privacy of her apartment. With words, Bonnibel can't get Marceline to say what's on her mind. But with her guitar in hand, Marceline sings her heart to Bonnibel.

There are things Bonnibel cannot do, and telling her parents that she is dating Marceline is one of them.

This is not another attempt to support hypotheses about her parents' leniency. She simply does not know if to call what they are doing "dating" since neither she nor Marceline attempt to discuss the parameters of their interactions. Marceline's band refers to her as the "Manager". She's not sure if that's indicative of her penchant for bossiness or if this is commentary about her relationship with Marceline. So she neglects sharing any aspect of whatever-it-is she has with the other girl to her parents. Her father hauls Marceline's duffel up to the guest bedroom while her mother comments about how long and pretty her hair is, how does she have time to comb it (Marceline tells her sometimes she shaves it off, but her mother thinks this is a joke. Bonnibel knows better, from the pictures Marceline's friends had shown her from years ago). Her parents need to go back to the store; their extended lunch hour is cutting into business time. They tell the girls that they will be back by eight and will bring Italian food for dinner.

"Do you want to go see my room?" Bonnibel suggests as soon as the front door closes.

She is so full of ulterior motives that she's almost astonished that she hasn't just blatantly said "Let's go upstairs and take our clothes off".

"Let me guess, it has pink wallpaper a canopy princess bed?"

Marceline is only right about the wallpaper. Bonnibel gives her a brief tour of the bedroom. There are shelves laden with trophies and ribbons, walls covered in plaques and framed certificates from science fairs and contests, merit awards for performing well academically, for being the top German student at various language centres.

"Wow Bon, I knew you were a brainiac, but this is nerdlinger geekdom at its finest. Why is a smart girl like you wasting time with a drop-out like me?" she jests, but Bonnibel frowns deeply at her.

"You're amazing," she says simply, and Marceline reddens and becomes very interested in one of her old science fair ribbons.

There is a something building and they both can feel it. It's been there for weeks, certainly there in the cab ride to Bonnibel's home, in between spoonfuls of soup at the dining room table, in glances and exchanges of small smiles.

Bonnibel wants sex. She's been wanting it for a while now, but hasn't been sure how to approach the subject with Marceline. This is the first time they are alone together like this. At Marceline's apartment, they remain strictly in her living room and more often than not, the Scream Queens are around practicing or shooting ideas about venues, performances, songs. During their dates, they hold hands. Sometimes when they have a moment alone, they share a kiss, and when they have hours alone, they make out until someone's mouth tires. Now and again, lips will find a neck or a hand will stroke a stomach or leg. But it never goes further than that. Bonnibel wants it to, and from the look that Marceline now gives her, it seems she has the same idea. She acknowledges that she will have to be the one to start. She takes her glasses off and rests them on the dressing table. Marceline knows by now that this is the cue to put her mouth on Bonnibel. Their mouths meet and they kiss until Bonnibel takes hold Marceline's hand and leads her to the bed.

Bravado seems reserved for public performances, and Bonnibel observes that the bedroom is a different story for Marceline. She is shy, tentative about making a move. Bonnibel isn't afraid and knows what she wants. She pulls Marceline into a kiss, one which is returned eagerly. The kissing leaves her wanting. They've done this many times before, and Bonnibel tries her best not to be impatient (Marceline is really good at this), but she cannot wait. Not breaking the kiss, she takes Marceline's hand and places it on her chest. Bonnibel squeezes the hand encouragingly. She lets go, and the hand remains, fingers at work. They kiss with lips and tongue, teeth lightly pulling on flesh, tasting, testing. Marceline's hand becomes braver. It finds its way under her shirt. Bonnibel is not wearing a bra. Marceline finds a nipple easily and takes it between her thumb and finger. She tugs lightly. Bonnibel surprises herself with her reaction, a low moan that breaks their kiss. There is instant alarm in the dark eyes looking at her—the hand stops—but Bonnibel is quick with her reassurance.

"It's okay."

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" Marceline asks, her voice heavy in a way Bonnibel strangely finds both sexy and utterly adorable.

"No. It felt really good. Keep going," Bonnibel tells her softly.

Marceline nods. Bonnibel wants to help, and so she pulls her shirt up enough for Marceline to see her handiwork. Hardened nipples on otherwise soft flesh. Marceline looks down, her usually pale face getting a warm colour. She is focussed, and proceeds with her ministrations. Bonnibel has to remember to breathe, taking in light puffs of air through her mouth and letting them out as contented sighs or sharp gasps.

"Can I kiss you?" Marceline asks.

"Of course" is the answer, though Bonnibel is confused as to why Marceline would ask. It becomes clear to her when instead of reaching for her mouth, Marceline lowers her head to plant kisses on her breasts. It is a meeting of lips to skin, slow and gentle. Bonnibel observes that the stimulus of a lubricated tongue against cutaneous covering results in faster respiratory response, lowered cognitive function and heightened euphoric sensation. But everything stops making sense when Marceline cups her breast, takes a nipple into her mouth, and begins sucking. Bonnibel shuts her eyes, curls her toes and bites her bottom lip hard. Between her legs pulses. Her mind quickly wanders to the moment she first saw Marceline—there was a feeling that time too. Different, but strong and alive all the same. Her hands tangle themselves in the other girl's long tresses. How strange it is that she can suddenly become aware of the earth turning on its axis. The room and her thoughts swirl in the direction of Marceline's tongue.

There is a knock at the door.

Marceline jumps, nearly falling off the bed. Bonnibel pulls her shirt down and sits up instantly.

"Who is it?" she nearly shouts.

"It's me! Your mom and dad said you're home for the summer! I have something to show you!"

It's Finn's cracking, boyish voice coming from the other side of the door.

"Who's that?" Marceline asks, wiping her mouth on her shirt's sleeve.

"The neighbours' kid," Bonnibel explains hoarsely. "I used to babysit him."

"Oh man, put a leash on your dweeb, Bonnie," she groans, falling back onto the bed. Marceline reaches for a pillow and covers her face with it.

Finn is drumming a beat against the door.

"Hold your gryphons, Finn. I'm coming!"

"Not any more you're not," she discerns from Marceline's muffled muttering.

Bonnibel sighs exasperatedly. She sees herself in the mirror across the room, and neatens her hair and examines her chest. Two tell-tale bumps appear through her tee-shirt but she isn't planning to open the door all the way anyhow. She gets there and opens it a crack, enough to stick her head out.

"What's up, Finn?"

He gives her a huge smile, toothless in some places and holds up a snail to her face.

"For scientific experimentation!" he says proudly. "Found this sucker lurking 'round the bushes out front. Thought you'd like him."

She squints and lowers her head for a closer look.

"This is an excellent specimen. I'd suggest you go put him back and follow him around. Sketch him in his natural habitat. Such observation is a key element of learning about creature behaviour."

"Will you come with?" he asks.

"Not today. I'm kinda busy right now. You know, research for… other stuff."

Her words fail her spectacularly.

Finn scrunches up his face, but then he beams at her. For ever since she has known him, he has gone along with anything she suggests.

"Yes, milady!" he salutes, and runs off, holding the snail with an unexpected amount of care.

Bonnibel shuts the door and makes sure to lock it. The boy has a predilection (when overly excited) to barge into rooms. She turns to find Marceline sitting cross-legged on the bed, a wicked grin across her face.

"Research, huh?" Marceline asks. "For a minute there, I forgot you were majoring in bio-chemistry."

One botched attempt does not deter Bonnibel. She's determined to get the desired results. If it's one thing she can do is trying again while considering new variables. She pulls her shirt off entirely and tosses it, heading towards the bed.

* * *

><p>Something Bonnibel can do is make Marceline come hard. She derives an intense satisfaction from doing it and it's just as good as any orgasm she gets in turn. Marceline enjoys when she goes down on her, and Bonnibel herself likes it whenever Marceline fingers her. Years of playing the bass plus those long fingers… the equation results in something as beautiful as a mathematical proof.<p>

* * *

><p>They have to see one another less now that Bonnibel is in her sophomore year and Marceline's band starts getting better gigs. They know that there are individual sacrifices to be made that would affect their time together. But they try their best. Bonnibel will drop her study group to go to Marceline's shows. Marceline will ditch practice to spend hours staving off sleep in the library while Bonnibel plows through her reading lists. There are things they have to do if they want this to work.<p>

Marceline does not call her a "girlfriend", although she now tells Bongo, Guy and Keila that they're dating and to stop bringing groupies around the apartment. Neither say "I love you" even though there are times when they are both panting, shaking from so much feeling that it threatens to come out. Instead there are hard kisses. There are nights when Marceline holds her so closely that Bonnibel feels a heartbeat against her, and there are days when Bonnibel finds herself willing to give everything up and hit the road with the band.

Bonnibel decides that she'll manage like this for now, but she knows that in her final year or when Marceline's band starts touring, things will change. She doesn't have faith that things will work out when logic can reason an inevitable outcome. She sees the odds. She knows the challenge. Maybe it's her pride talking, she can't fail this.

There are things Bonnibel cannot do and letting go of Marceline is one of them.


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N. Non-chronological, just writing as ideas come.**

Marceline slowly untangles herself from the warm body next to hers. Bonnibel gives a little snort and mumbles something about "haplotypes" and "mutation", but she doesn't wake. Successfully out of bed, she pulls the blanket over the other girl. Bonnibel instinctively snuggles into it, mouth slightly open, breathing systemically as she plunges deeper into whatever dream she's having.

Marceline stretches, long limbs numb in places where Bonnibel slept on them. For someone who's so poised when she's awake and in public, asleep and in private, Bonnie can be a slob. While the older girl keeps to her side of the bed, mornings like these find Bonnibel sprawled most unsightly either across the bed or Marceline. During the week, Bonnibel wakes very early to get on with studying for her electives or credit courses; Marceline knows this from the early morning texts containing messages like "Robert Michels lol" or "I'm out of milk again, darn it". But on the weekends, Bonnibel turns off the alarm function in her cell phone and sleeps soundly and deeply until she's woken. Marceline leaves her for as long as she can, knowing that the girl doesn't rest enough during the week.

She cleans herself before she does anything else—a habit she gladly passes on to Bonnibel who, like the nerds she worked with, would forget basic rules for health and hygiene in the midst of lab-based breakthrough. Marceline learns about one particular case where Bonnibel and her lab partners existed entirely on naps, pizza, coffee, hand sanitizer and Listerine for over eighty-three hours trying to get an experiment completed on time. She finishes her shower and dresses in some shorts and a loose tee, then goes to her desk to start working. She turns on the laptop, arranges her MIDI controller to a more workable position, puts on her headphones and fires up the music program, opening to the last project she'd been composing. Time to make music.

She has to get some sample tracks ready to send to Simon Petrikov, a local mogul who is a few years away from retiring and wants to see his business out with a bang. He thinks "hip tunes" from a young musician is the thing that'll make it happen. Simon's her least consistent client, his publically undisclosed dementia wearing on him worse as he ages—sometimes he looks at Marceline like it's the first time he's seeing her—but Marceline has a soft spot for the old man. He is an old associate of her father's. She knows him from another one of those Christmas dinners her father hosted, the ones where she was forced to wear her good red shoes and neat little dresses. She remembers meeting Simon Petrikov, and how he presented her with a Christmas gift and Hunson with expensive wine. She glances at the raggedy stuffed bear slumped behind the laptop and stops working to fix him upright.

Simon came into her life more than a decade ago. Now he's an old man slowly losing his grip on the things around him. But he seems happy whenever Marceline presents him with music, and he boasts every time about once being a wiz on the drums. Dealing with him not remembering her half the time and having to interact with his emotionless underlings (the only one whose name she remembers is "Gunter") can be wearisome, but she's welcome for the company and the business. After all, paying rent, buying groceries, maintaining her equipment, instruments, contributing to gas money and repairs for the van are costly ventures. She and the Scream Queens don't play nearly enough to make ends meet, and so they find other means for money. Perhaps they need to take a bigger risk for a bigger reward—quit their day jobs and pursue the music scene 100%. Marceline hears another sleep-mumble from behind her (this time about obligate parthenogenesis), and knows exactly what makes her hesitate from making that decision.

She's changed. Or her priorities have changed, at least.

She's no longer the seventeen-year-old who, as soon as she got her high school diploma, said later to her burnout classmates and her douche-monger ex-boyfriend, "Cool Schmool" her theme song for that day. She didn't say a word to her dad, who was unsurprisingly on a business trip and wasn't home to see her shoving bare necessities into a backpack (she would later even be grateful that he didn't send any of his henchmen to drag her back to the United States when she had taken off). With the planet ticket in hand, she hitched a ride to the airport and spent the subsequent year travelling across the South American continent. Back then it was fine to drop everything and everyone to go to trekking up the terraced Peruvian mountainsides or to bite-test gold chunks from Guyanese peddlers trying to make some US bucks or to be thoroughly confused about whether or not to say a phrase in Dutch or Sranang to a Surinamese. The year away put things into perspective for her. Coming back resulted in newfound responsibilities. She had to find a place of her own to live and get a job, having depleted all of her savings. She never thought about actually making music professionally until a few stints at some bars led to meeting a trio who needed a frontman for their fledgling band. Marceline and the Scream Queens was born and while it was mostly for fun, they wanted to share their sound.

Bands tour if they want to get their music out there, and that's what Marceline wants. But she wonders from time to time if she wants it as much as the pretty nineteen year old snoring on her bed. Marceline should be finishing up the jingle. Instead, she clicks "New Project" and starts working on a song for Bonnibel.

It's quarter to twelve when she next checks the time on the computer screen. They should go out and get something to eat. After that, Bonnie will have to go back to her dorm and finish whatever homework she has for her Monday tutorials. As Marceline recalls, Mondays are Structure and Function of Macromolecules.

She goes over to the bed and shakes Bonnibel gently.

"Rise and shine, princess. We don't want all of Sunday to pass us by."

Bonnibel opens one eye halfway and groans, reaching blindly around the bedside table for her glasses. She retrieves them and slips them on though her eyes are still mostly closed. They've spent so many weekends together that Marceline knows every one of her actions entirely from this point on.

She'll ask for the time.

"What time is it?" comes the groggy question.

Marceline will answer and Bonnie will immediately get out of bed and head to the bathroom to wash up.

"It's nearly midday."

"Gimme a sec," Bonnibel says, tossing the blanket off of her and crawling out of the bed in the direction of the bathroom.

"You need to get a new toothbrush from the cabinet," Marceline shouts after her, suddenly remembering that she had tossed it when Guy used it to shine his boots with some black polish.

Marceline goes back to her desk to continue working on the piece. Her journal has some jottings for lyrics, and she tries to find the best chord progression that would work with this one particular phrase.

_I wanna_

She goes through the journal's pages trying to find other notes she pens when bouts of inspiration took her. She's not even going to let anyone, not even Bonnie hear this song, so she isn't entirely sure why she's putting in this much effort. She can't help it or maybe it just has to be done for anything to be articulated. There's just something about Bonnibel that she can't express entirely with words or actions. Music is the best way to channel it.

She hears the water running and knows it takes exactly thirty minutes for Bonnibel to finish in there, so she uses this time to try to wrangle out a couple more seconds of music. She's engrossed entirely when she feels one side of her headphones being pulled back. There are lips close against her ear.

"Marceline."

The sound is all sweetness and Marceline wonders how she hasn't died yet from sugar shock. She feels arms wrapping themselves around her from behind and a familiar softness of breasts pressing against her. The sensation is unusual but not unfamiliar: Bonnibel's naked. The arms leave her, but not before fingers drag across her shoulders through the thin cotton of her shirt. Marceline takes the headphones off. Work can wait. Bonnibel is right now.

She finds the softness of the bed and Bonnibel again. She kicks the thick blanket to the ground—getting tangled up in anything other than limbs is the last thing she wants.

She never tires of how fast Bonnie can get riled up. There are times when they'd be watching a movie and she'll feel a hand stroking the inside of her thigh, daring to go further whenever the theatre plunges into darkness. There are nights when they're about to head out for a drink, the Scream Queens waiting for them outside, and instead Bonnie will give her that _look_, the one that leads to a quickie against the front door while the buzzer sounds, telling them to get their asses downstairs before happy hour ends. Then there are the times when there's nothing and nobody else, and everything is slow and soft and Marceline is sure that what they're doing is making love but she won't call it that because that word, that idea, that feeling makes her anxious. She's loved people and things before. Those things pull away from her. She wants this to hold for as long as it can.

Bonnibel finds her way on top of her, straddling, with Marceline flat against the bed. She puts her hands on Bonnie's hips, stroking the skin with her thumbs while drinking in the sight of her body. Marceline doesn't ever think she could ever get used to seeing this. It's like listening to her favourite songs over and over again—she always hears it in a different way or finds something else to like about them. Bonnie's body is like that. She's seen it naked countless times by now, but it still makes her go like what. Bonnibel looks down at her, eyes giving away how turned on she is. Sometimes it happens like this, on other occasions they're hours into conversation and one thing would lead to another. This is one of those "talk later" moments.

She sits up, holding onto Bonnibel and pulling her snug into her lap. She's able to look directly at her now. Bonnie's cupping her face and Marceline inhales, getting the scent of her soap. She has no idea how, but it always smells so much better on Bonnibel.

"Hey, Marceline," Bonnibel whispers.

"Hello, Bonnibel," she answers.

Marceline's hands run up and down the other girl's sides, ghosting in the places she knows Bonnie likes light touches, nails dragging in places that always make Bonnibel shiver. Bonnie comes close enough to lick her, the tip of her tongue wet and warm against her lips. It's quick, soft but Marceline feels a deep pang between her legs. Her head clouds, her heart bursts. She turns, pressing Bonnibel against the bed while she hovers over her.

The words are there. They're right there in her throat. They're filling her red blood cells, mixing in with her very soul. They're in Bonnie's eyes, against her lips, in her breath. But she can't get them to come out. She can't let them come out. Is Bonnibel waiting for her? She is looking up expectantly. Marceline doesn't know what to do so she kisses her instead of talking.

The kiss is hard. Each ensuing one deeper and longer than the last. She makes them both gasp for breath. Anything not to say what's threatening to escape. She fills her mouth with Bonnibel's tongue to keep them from tumbling out. She's aching, and she feels herself getting wet. She stops. They're both panting, and Marceline watches the quick rise and fall of Bonnie's breasts as she tries to catch her breath.

"Please," she hears.

It's one word. One Marceline can deal with, one she can take care of, one she's not afraid of. She quickly discards her shorts and underwear and her shirt's still on but fuck it—she can't wait. Any hesitation and she might say something so she needs to act. Marceline presses her weight against Bonnibel eliciting a moan that makes every thought get hazy. Her body attunes itself to Bonnie's song. Slowly, steadily, she rocks her lower body against Bonnibel's. Arms go around her back, fingers clawing through her shirt, and Bonnibel pulls her closer. There's adjusting, legs hooking around her for support.

"Harder."

Marceline listens and obeys, thrusting deeper against her. Bonnibel's cries are in her ears; they drunken and encourage her. A single thought manages to escape, and it's an awareness of her thinness. She hopes she's not causing any displeasure—Marceline is painfully aware of how bony she is compared to Bonnie who is soft and supple everywhere. But there are no grunts of pain and it's all pleasure and Marceline dips her head in the crook of Bonnibel's neck and loses herself in motion and sensation.

"Ah… unh!"

Legs clamp around her tightly, the grip tightens, a body pushes upwards and Bonnibel comes against her. Marceline's racing from excitement, exertion—everything. She's sweating and so is Bonnibel, so she kisses dampened forehead. The orgasm passes and Marceline watches Bonnie sink into residual bliss. She loosens her grip and her body is now limp. The shirt feels heavy against Marceline's skin. She now remembers she still has it on, and so does away with it. Naked, she lies on the bed, head half buried into a pillow while Bonnie covers her eyes and tries to breathe normally again. The drubbing in Marceline's heart eases to a steady thud. Bonnibel's breathing stabilises and she turns to Marceline, grinning.

"That was unexpected," she says.

"What, me giving you an earth-shattering orgasm? I think that's highly expected, princess," teases Marceline.

"Sei leise."

Bonnibel shifts until she's resting with her head against Marceline's chest. Marceline reaches up and strokes her hair, tangling her fingers in the pink locks. She's seeing places where the hair dye is fading.

"You need to touch up on your colour, Bon."

"I'm wondering if to let it return to its natural state."

Bonnibel has a hand on her breast, and she's drawing circles lightly around her nipple. Marceline leaves her to it.

"I'll miss this cotton candy hair of yours. Although you're around chemicals enough as it is already. I don't want the hair dye to seep into your brain and make you permanently mush-headed."

"As if I'm ever mush-headed!" Bonnibel protests.

"Dunno, you seem to only think about one thing whenever you see my rockin' bod."

"Oh please. Besides if you're going to talk about someone whose thought processes disappear when confronted with even the possibility of gratification, you should mention _Raggedy_. Now that girl is pure desperation."

Marceline curses herself for letting her brain shut down earlier for now she's trying hard to remember the name of the girl Bonnie's talking about. She comes up blank, but remembers a brown-haired mousy-looking specimen who hangs around Bonnie at the university on instances.

"You shouldn't call her that," she says, giving up.

"That's like her codename in the group… don't tell her I said that."

"Grod, Bon, you can be such a kid sometimes."

That always gets her pissed off. Marceline has to admit sometimes she does it just to tick the younger girl off. She knows these things about Bonnibel. She accepts challenges but hates being proven wrong. She needs to be in control all the time and when she's not, she's likely to huff about it (Marceline remembers trying to point out once to her that "group project" does not mean "everyone else is incompetent and I'm doing everything by myself"). And she hates being called immature even though she's a right little terror half the time. Marceline wonders sometimes how she can care so much about someone so high maintenance. Teenage Marceline would've bolted after spending even half a minute with Miss Perfect. But as much as Bonnie has given her a sense of stability she'd never felt in ages, she has to give back in turn. The kid needs to be less of a royal brat—that beautiful big brain of hers sometimes swells her ego and pride. So she will tease Bonnie, get her ticked off. Because ticking her off makes her think, and if she thinks about anything, Marceline knows she'll figure it out eventually. She is smart, after all. It's an inconvenience sometimes, one that could end in arguments. Marceline strangely isn't afraid of that. The apologies are always sincere. They end up stronger somehow, closer. If anything, there's a mutual unspoken respect when one of them owns up to a fault. Marceline admits sometimes she plays around a bit too much; Bonnibel concedes she's too highly strung. At the end of it, they keep coming back. Marceline knows why, but she won't say it for fear of jinxing it.

So instead, she sticks her tongue out at Bonnie who blushes. There's a 50% chance that Bonnie either lets it go or holds on to it and fusses. She pushes up and tips Marceline's head closer to hers for kiss.

"Just shut up," Bonnibel mumbles. "We only have a couple hours. I don't want to waste them."

Marceline agrees. Why make war when you can make love anyway?

* * *

><p>She knows something is different about tonight.<p>

One hour set, a Halloween concert, college students. It won't make them a lot of money—these event organisers are notoriously cheap. But it's exposure, it's a gig. Why not?

She looks down from the stage into the crowd and she can't see most of anything outside of cell phone glow, one or two lighters (people still wave lighters around? she wonders) and vague outlines of people. She catches something golden directly down below but she can't see it clearly.

Marceline's voice is smooth, but she sings hard as the band plays guts and glory behind her. She has their energy and with her own, she translates everything they want to communicate to lyrics, each pluck on the bass' strings a sound after their souls. Each song garners cheers and whistles. Electricity runs through her entire body, and there is nothing comparable. She sees her fingers work the black fret board, the white lights flashing overhead and somewhere out in the darkness, a bit of pink.

The set is over and people are still hooting in approval. They need to clear off the stage—somebody who looks like Moby on the cover of _Play _is taking over. The band moves quick to get their stuff back into the van; lingering during their last gig resulted in Guy's keyboard getting stolen when they weren't paying attention. The college circuit has its benefits—young, screaming fanbase, but it also attracts broke-ass punks looking to steal anything worth a dollar to sell for laptops, churros or weed.

"I think we did pretty well," Guy tells them as he hauls his new (used) keyboard into the back of the van.

Marceline is careful with her axe, and stores it herself instead of tossing it the way that Bongo passes his snare to Keila to store it with the rest of the drum set. Her bass is the one thing from home that she ever took from her dad, having left behind even all of the clothes he bought for her (her father's fashion sense includes preppy-ass blazer power suit combos that makes her look like Daddy's Little Intern). She can't let the guitar get banged up with the rest of the stuff, so she keeps it in a case and packs it in last when everything else is secured.

Keila and Guy jump out of the back of the van and Marceline gets in and stores the bass in its case.

"All right Scream Queens, let's mingle!" she shouts, the adrenaline from earlier kicking in again.

They lock the van and head back to the grounds. Marceline is in dire need of a drink, her throat sore and dry from singing for an hour. Water would be the best thing, but there's a higher likelihood of finding an oasis in a desert than getting a bottle of water in a party like this. Beer is the next best thing. They find the coolers and Marceline doesn't wait to start getting drinks for her and the band.

She catches it again. Pink.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a bespectacled girl (a teenager? She looks young) with a plastic crown on her very pink head. Marceline doesn't know what possesses her, but she gives her a heads up and tosses a can of Budweiser her way. She's is pleasantly surprised to see the princess catch it. The one she throws to Bongo lands on the ground and he just proceeds to shake up the contents even worse and let it spray all over everyone. The girl keeps looking at her. Marceline thinks to heck with it and decides she'll talk to her. It's just some conversation to pass the rest of the night anyway. Besides, she's cute. Marceline thinks this might be some good fun.

* * *

><p>She spends the entire night talking to Bonnibel. The band is off getting plastered in the crowd, but they've remained more or less in the same place, finding somewhere grassy and less crowded to sit and drink. Marceline speaks about her travels and listens to stories about science and experiments. They talk about themselves, though Marceline makes sure to avoid telling Bonnibel her full name. People will not recognise her face, but they will certainly know that surname of hers, and she prefers to do without the "Whoa, wait a minute!" reactions she gets when people learn she's Marceline Abadeer.<p>

"Eighteen?" Marceline asks, realising that there's a reason Bonnibel's face looks so young.

She's just a kid.

"You shouldn't be drinking that," she tells her, pointing to the beer can. "Though I'm not gonna stop you."

"It's merely a formality," Bonnibel explains. "I don't quite care for it, so I won't have another. I'm also aware that me drinking is not exactly in accordance with the law. But I'm willing to bend the rules for the sake of science."

Marceline doesn't know what to make of this girl. She's smart, smarter than anyone Marceline has ever spoken to. It's almost intimidating but Marceline isn't afraid. She's interested. She decides after hearing something about—what was it, plantoids? She can't remember—that she's not going to do her regular thing where she just spouts some crappy one-liners and expect it to be charming. She's invested in these talks of chemicals and biology and the use of mathematical principles to understand art. She's into these details of Bonnibel's extensive syllabi. And she sees in Bonnibel's expression something that makes her feel pretty cool too when she talks about how she ended up in hula-hooping in a town square in Argentina with a performing street group or when she describes how proud she was of herself when she had learned the heptatonic scale by accident just mucking around with guitars when she was younger.

The party ends way too soon. The band shows up looking drained and Marceline knows it's time to go. She thinks quick and offers Bonnibel a ride back to the dormitories, and she's glad when there's an affirmative. She's even gladder that their van is so cramped that Bonnibel has to sit on her lap. They drop the girl off and Marceline gives Bonnibel her phone number. She wants to hear more about zanoits or at least she wants to hear Bonnibel talk more about them.

As soon as they pull off, the Keila, Bongo and Guy start hassling her cheerfully.

"Are you sure that girl is legal?"

"Robbing the cradle!"

"Oh come on, they were just talking…"

"Are you blind or what?"

"Marceline's totally perving on a groupie."

"She's cute as a button on the cutest thing ever, though."

"That girl's gonna sleep off the alco and not remember a damned thing about tonight. Don't know why you left evidence on her phone, Marceline. You ruined a perfect getaway!"

Marceline laughs and tells them to shove it. She checks her phone. Of course it doesn't ring. It's four in the morning and it hasn't even been five minutes since they dropped her off. But she hopes that someday it'll ring and it'll be Bonnibel calling.


End file.
